The Crooked Path

by Irma Joubert

  I hope you have a wonderful Christmas—you and your mom and dad.

  All the best.

  Your friend,

  Christine

  When she had read the letter, Lettie sat motionless for a long time, thinking. It was not the letter she had hoped to receive from Christine. Was there any possibility that the “friend” might be Christine herself? Lettie immediately dismissed the thought. She knew Christine well enough to know she would never go that far with a boy.

  Besides, Lettie knew Christine was madly in love with De Wet. Or could homesickness have driven Christine into the arms of another man?

  No, impossible, Lettie decided. Besides, Christine would have been honest with her or, at the very least, confided in Klara. They had always been close. And she felt sure Klara didn’t know about any such thing.

  Lettie got up, took a writing pad from the top drawer of her desk, and began to answer Christine’s letter. She did her best, though it wasn’t easy putting the information Christine was asking for on paper. She imagined Christine blushing as she read the letter. Christine would probably consider the entire chain of events a gross sin. Lettie smiled to herself.

  She sealed the envelope and addressed it. On the back she printed PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. Then she put the letter next to her dad’s doctor’s bag so that he would mail it the next day.

  In April of Lettie’s final year at university, the war in Europe ended. Christine was expected home any moment, with a baby. Klara said the father was Gerbrand Pieterse, a bywoner from her family’s farm who had also been stationed in Cairo during the war. He would not be coming home.

  “How has his family taken the news?” Lettie asked. Her heart felt heavy for Christine, for the child.

  “About the baby?” Klara asked. She shrugged. “It’s a boy. Christine has named him for his father.”

  Antonio, the young Italian prisoner of war who had lodged with Klara’s family while the bridge and later the new church in town were being built, had returned to Italy. All over the country there were celebrations to welcome the returning soldiers. Lettie’s varsity chums and her colleagues at the hospital where she was doing her practical work were in a festive mood.

  Mr. Personality had still not put in an appearance. “Give it time,” Lettie’s mom said. “He’ll turn up.” In the meantime Lettie worked hard to stay at the top of her class. She had to make her mark somewhere at least.

  Lettie spent her July vacation working at the hospital in Joburg. She had a small, chilly room on the south side of the staff quarters. When Klara paid her an unexpected visit, she slept on a hospital mattress, which they stowed under Lettie’s bed by day.

  Lettie didn’t see too much of Klara, who had actually come to visit her fiancé, Henk. Late at night, after Klara came back from a date with Henk, and in the early mornings, before Lettie reported for duty, they lay on their beds chatting. Klara had plans to come teach at a nearby school.

  Tuesday evening Henk invited Klara and Lettie to his flat to listen to music. He bought fish and chips, which they ate from the newspaper wrapping.

  “Not very hygienic,” Lettie said, “this newsprint, I mean.”

  “Well, don’t eat the paper,” said Henk. He had mischievous eyes that always looked amused.

  As they were lying in the dark that night, Lettie said, “Henk is one of the nicest guys I know, Klara.”

  “Ye-es, he is, isn’t he?” Klara replied sleepily. “It was a nice evening, but I’m exhausted. Sleep tight.”

  Thursday evening Klara asked, “Lettie, do you have an evening gown?”

  “More than one,” Lettie replied. She didn’t mention that they had never been worn. “Why?”

  “We’re going dancing tomorrow night.”

  “You’re welcome to wear one of my dresses, but I’m afraid you’ll drown in it.” Lettie laughed. “Besides, it’ll be much too short.”

  “No, silly,” Klara said, “you’ll be wearing it yourself. You’re coming along.”

  Lettie was silent for a moment. “With you and Henk?”

  “And one of Henk’s colleagues. I haven’t met him, but Henk says he’s a nice chap.”

  “Klara . . . ,” she said uncertainly.

  “Oh, come on, Lettie,” Klara urged. “The four of us will be going together. We’ll have a good time. You can’t say no!”

  “Fine,” Lettie agreed quietly, but her heart began to race. Was she really going to a dance—in one of her ball gowns?

  The next afternoon, while Klara was taking a bath, Lettie spread her three brand-new gowns on the bed. Which one should she wear? She stroked the delicate blue dress of her first year and gave a slight smile. In her mind she heard Annabel say, “Lettie, it’s so old-fashioned! It’s so . . . 1940!” On the other hand, all her dresses came from her first three years. After that her mom had understood that Lettie didn’t need new gowns. Or perhaps it had just become too difficult to get hold of fabric.

  “Which one are you going to wear?” Klara asked behind her. “Oh, that dark-green one is stunning!”

  The evening was a fairy tale. Lettie glided across the floor of the town hall in a bubble, the music flowing through her body. Her partner was a bit awkward at first, but after a while he lightened up and began to laugh heartily at his own jokes. They danced well together.

  The best parts of the evening were the two dances she had with Henk. He was a good dancer and a fun companion.

  Back at the doctors’ quarters, she and Klara chatted until the early hours. “When do you plan on getting married?” Lettie asked. “December?”

  “I don’t know,” said Klara. “I suppose so.”

  “You don’t sound very excited,” Lettie ventured.

  “I haven’t given it much thought,” said Klara. “We’d better go to sleep now. You’re on call tomorrow.”

  “Henk is really handsome, Klara,” Lettie said after a while.

  “Hmm,” Klara said dreamily, as if she was too sleepy to reply.

  But before Lettie fell asleep, she heard Klara toss and turn, heard her friend curl into a ball on the mattress beside her, heard her smothered sigh.

  The next morning Lettie was rudely awakened by the shrill sound of her alarm clock. She got up, switched the kettle on, and went to the bathroom. She was unaccustomed to dancing. Her feet ached and her eyes smarted from lack of sleep. It would be a long day ahead.

  When she got back to her room, Klara said, “I’m going to break off my engagement tonight.”

  Suddenly Lettie was wide-awake. Her hands flew to her face. “Klara? Are you sure?” she asked. “Have you thought this through?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Klara replied. “I think I’ve known for a long time what I must do, but I just haven’t been able to drum up the courage to do it. We’ve been together so long, Lettie, and I do love him, but I know now I can’t marry Henk. I know it.”

  Lettie took the coffeepot and two cups from the shelf and measured two scoops of coffee grounds into the bag. “Is there someone else, Klara?” she asked, pouring boiling water over the coffee. “The . . . Italian? Antonio?”

  Klara shrugged.

  “That’s what I thought.” Lettie nodded.

  “There’s nothing between us, Lettie. He’s gone back to Italy, to the girl he’s been engaged to since before the war. They’ll probably get married soon. He wrote to her while he was here and he regularly received letters from her.” Klara gave a mirthless laugh. “I know her name. I even know her handwriting.”

  Lettie poured the coffee. “But he made you realize Henk isn’t the right man for you? Sorry, I forgot to buy milk.”

  “You know, Lettie,” Klara said somberly, “if Antonio had asked me to go to Italy with him, I think I would have packed my belongings there and then. I don’t know that I’d even be willing to move to Johannesburg for Henk. I do know that I don’t love him enough to marry him.”

  Lettie was quiet for a long time, then she asked, “When are you going to tell him?”
<
br />   “Tonight,” Klara replied. “I must talk to him tonight. I’m going home tomorrow.”

  Poor Henk, Lettie thought. Poor, poor Henk.

  When Klara came in late that night and lay down on her mattress, Lettie pretended to be asleep. She didn’t want to hear what Klara had to say.

  She couldn’t help thinking of Henk. She knew what it felt like when the force of your own love was just not enough for the other person.

  The next morning she helped Klara carry her luggage down to the parking lot. “Thanks, Lettie, I’ve enjoyed talking to you,” Klara said awkwardly, her eyes sad.

  “Do come again, if you can stand sleeping on the hard hospital mattress,” Lettie said, trying to put her friend at ease.

  “Thanks.” Klara nodded. “But . . . in a year or two you’ll be joining your dad’s practice, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” Lettie said, glad to change the subject. “My dad wants me to take over. He’s in his seventies, you know.”

  “That’s . . . very old,” Klara said, surprised.

  Lettie smiled. “My parents weren’t young when I was born. My dad was nearly fifty and my mom forty-five. Here’s Henk now.”

  Just before Henk parked, Lettie said, “Klara, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  When Henk got out of his car, Lettie noticed he looked slightly pale. He glanced briefly at the two of them. “Can I take the luggage? Is this everything?” he asked cordially.

  “That’s the lot, Henk, thanks,” said Klara, not making eye contact either.

  As they were about to leave, Lettie said on the spur of the moment, “Come for coffee, Henk. Anytime you like.”

  The grayish-blue eyes behind the lenses looked straight at her for a moment. He smiled slightly. “Thanks, I will,” he promised.

  He looked away quickly. But not before she saw the misery in his eyes.

  And so the long wait began.

  She knew Henk would come for coffee. She had seen in his eyes that he was glad she had asked. He would simply turn up one evening and say, “Come, Lettie, let’s go have that cup of coffee you promised me.”

  Maybe they would talk about Klara—yes, they probably would, because it would still be on his mind. And she would listen—she was a good listener.

  Later they would mention Klara less often, and start making their own conversations. They would discuss his job, or where she would be doing her internship the following year.

  Maybe they would go to the movies.

  Or out dancing again.

  At the end of the vacation, she returned to her room in the women’s residence at Wits.

  She knew Henk would find her there. He had once asked her the name of the res where she lived.

  But the phone call or knock on the front door never came.

  She didn’t see him again until December, just before the start of final exams, when she bumped into him on a city tram and he introduced her to the pretty petite brunette hanging on to his arm.

  That night Lettie resolved to forget about Henk. He would no more notice her than De Wet would. Henceforth, she decided, men would be colleagues, maybe friends. Nothing more. Because men caused pain, intense pain—especially handsome, friendly men.

  Lying in her narrow bed on that warm night, Lettie made a decision. From now on she would focus on her career. She would become the best doctor she could be. She’d go back to the bushveld and take her father’s practice and help their people. In time, the name of Dr. Lettie Louw would be on everyone’s lips. That’s how she would be remembered.

  Because she knew: no man would ever look at her the way they looked at Annabel or Klara or Christine.

  A light breeze stirred the curtains in the small hours of the night. She felt the breeze touch her, smooth her nightgown over the full curves of her body.

  She cried herself to sleep.

  part two

  LOVE AND WAR

  chapter

  THREE

  Marco Romanelli was the eldest of three boys. He lived with his parents and two brothers in a village in the north of Italy, high in the Alps, near the French and Swiss borders.

  The village was isolated. The winding road leading there was steep, with sharp curves, and strangers seldom stopped there.

  The Romanellis’ house was in the center of the village, on the square. Marco’s parents, Giuseppe and Maria, occupied the only bedroom. Marco and his brothers, Antonio and Lorenzo, shared a small room at the back of the house. There was only one other room, with an open fireplace, a wooden table and six chairs, a stove, and a small oven. There was a big oven outside, but in winter, when the snow was heaped against the houses and the occupants had to tunnel their way out like moles, Maria cooked inside.

  In front of the house was a patio, where Giuseppe and his friends sat on Saturday afternoons playing chess. And talking. And pouring wine from a jug, taking small sips from clay goblets.

  Maria bustled in and around the house all day, cooking and baking and cleaning, hoeing and planting and sweeping, knitting sweaters and patching trousers and darning stockings. She sang while she worked and spoke to everyone.

  Giuseppe was a sculptor. He carved figures from the white marble found in the quarries around the village. He was a quiet man, and when he did speak, he took his time. Giuseppe had always struggled with words. They got stuck in his thoughts, and it required great effort to force them past his unwilling tongue. But he was a good listener and knew exactly what was going on around him.

  Marco and his brothers had a great number of uncles and aunts, like Tia Sofia and old Luigi with their shameful grandchild, Tia Anna with her sharp nose, the uncles in the vineyards and the orchards and the stone quarries, the aunts stirring pots and working in the vegetable gardens, at the washtubs and sewing machines.

  The only other people Marco Romanelli knew were the villagers: Father Enrico, who was also the schoolteacher; the Baron of Veneto, who lived in a stone villa high on the cliffs above the village; and the doctor, who was the smartest man in the village.

  And of course there was Gina Veneto, the baron’s utterly spoiled, pesky young daughter. She looked like a doll with her curly hair and blue eyes, but when the Romanelli boys didn’t want to play by her rules, she would run to tell her father.

  Some Saturday afternoons the doctor would bring his gramophone and records to the patio in front of the Romanellis’ modest home. He would put a record on the turntable, position the wide mouth of the horn so that everyone could hear, carefully wind up the gramophone, and lift the needle very slowly over the edge of the record.

  That was how Marco Romanelli was introduced to the voices of Enrico Caruso, Tito Schipa, and Beniamino Gigli, to the deep bass of Ezio Pinza and the warbling soprano of Amelita Galli-Curci.

  Marco Romanelli instinctively knew it was heavenly music.

  Shortly before his sixteenth birthday, Marco, who was smart, became a boarder at the senior school in the bigger neighboring town. All three of the Romanelli boys were intelligent. It was the early thirties, the time of the depression, but the doctor helped with the school fees, as did one of Marco’s uncles. Even the baron lent a hand. Two years later Marco’s brother Antonio also enrolled at the town school, while Marco moved on to the university in Turin.

  In Turin Marco studied languages: Italian and Latin, of course, as well as French, German, and English. Besides languages, he studied music and music history. Though he loved music, his first love was literature, in which he could lose himself.

  Marco had no interest whatsoever in politics. When Italy invaded Abyssinia on October 3, 1935, he barely registered the event. He was oblivious of the aircraft spraying mustard gas on villages in that distant African country. When the other students discussed politics, he turned a deaf ear. “Marco lives in a world of his own,” said his fellow students.

  But something else happened to Marco that year. In fact, it struck him head-on and knocked him out of his dream world, popul
ated by old books. The name of that something was Rachel Rozenfeld.

  A year earlier Mr. Rozenfeld had opened a shop in Marco’s village. The villagers were glad because they had been dependent on the provisions the railway bus brought from the big town once a week.

  Mr. Rozenfeld, his plump wife, and their two daughters came from Lithuania, where conditions had become unbearable. Jews had no rights there. Just like in Russia, where they had been before, the Jews were being persecuted at every turn.

  During the day Rachel worked in her father’s shop, while her younger sister attended Father Enrico’s school.

  When Marco came home from Turin during the long vacation, he saw Rachel Rozenfeld, with her shiny black hair, sparkling dark eyes, velvety skin, and apple-red cheeks. When she laughed, her teeth gleamed white, and her voice was like mountain bells.

  No Dante or Janvier, no Rainer Maria Rilke or William Shakespeare—no master of world poetry could have described her beauty.

  He also noticed the soft curves of her young figure.

  That vacation Marco Romanelli lost his heart to Rachel Rozenfeld.

  At dusk on warm summer evenings, the young people of the village liked to walk up the path, across the Ponte Bartolini, over the level terrain where the boys played soccer on Saturdays, past the centuries-old bell tower without its bell, to the castle ruins. Only the thick stone walls stood firmly where they had been planted centuries before.

  Marco strolled quietly at Rachel Rozenfeld’s side. Though he didn’t look at her or touch her, he was intensely aware of her presence. Over them, the castle’s shadows loomed.

  Marco listened to Rachel’s voice, nodding as she told him how Tia Sofia grumbled about the prices of everything she bought. “But you have to take her the way she is. She’s really a good person, you know, Marco?”

  “Yes,” said Marco, licking his dry lips. How did a man say to a beautiful girl . . .

  “I’m so sorry for their grandson. The boy always seems afraid someone will kick him,” said Rachel. “Do you know what he looks like?”